


Colors of Bronze

by BoxWineConfessions



Series: Otabek Altin Week 2017 [6]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Sex, M/M, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, mutual yuri pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-28 17:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12611536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoxWineConfessions/pseuds/BoxWineConfessions
Summary: It’s not his Yuuri. There’s no way that Otabek will allow him to forget that. From his broad shoulders to his stoic demeanor. He’s no Chris either. There’s no way that Otabek will allow him to forget that. It’s been a long, long time since he himself has had to settle for bronze. The shade doesn’t suit him one bit, but that he can get.





	Colors of Bronze

“Excuse me,” Victor hears the words, and turns to face the speaker. Victor’s response doesn’t come right away because it takes him a longer than normal to register where he’s seen the man. Seconds elapse instead of the seamless fraction of a second that it should. It’s nothing personal. It’s just that it’s always him, and it’s always Chris on the other side. The other person never matters much at all. Victor’s mouth pulls into a smile as he  _ finally _ recognizes this year’s bronze medalist. Altin, Kazakhstan, 4L & 4S, and a step sequence that looks like it’s been pulled taut over an ironing board and starched until it’s begging for mercy. 

He looks flushed in the dim lighting of the gala. He tugs at his tie as he speaks. The champagne in his glass sloshes precariously from one side of his glass to the other. 

“Hello,” Victor extends his hand to him. “Congratulations. It was an amazing performance.”   Victor raises his martini glass upward so that the crystal catches the light. “There’s no doubting that you have an amazing career ahead of you.” 

“Thank you.” Otabek pulls his brows into a tight knit which matches his clenched jaw. The small talk seems to make him physically uncomfortable. “Is Yuri Plisetsky here?” 

It’s not the follow up he expected. Perhaps that is why it rarely matters who is in the third position on the podium. Chris sees him as a human and a friend.  The other person sees him as some shining idol whose golden exterior extends far beyond the small piece of metal hung around his neck. Despite his boldness,  this boy approaches him with wide a stance, broad shoulders, and firmest jawline, there’s no denying what he desperately tries to conceal. He’s a boy. 

However, even after the medal ceremony, Otabek sees him as an obstacle to overcome. Get the information and then get the boy. “I’m afraid our  _ junior _ ,” he emphasizes the word for several reasons. Even in the junior division, Yuri far surpasses this boy who skates among medaled athletes. Of course there is the  _ other  _ issue, not a problem really just something that should be brought to his attention. Yuri is fourteen, and Otabek isn’t. “World champion is being kept under lock and key tonight.” Victor chuckles. It’s unfair really. If it weren’t for him and Yuuri Katsuki, Yakov wouldn’t be keeping him on such a short leash. 

Things would be different for him if Yuri weren’t being punished for his own love drunk antics. But Yakov could keep Yuri in, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about Victor. He could tell the old man was grasping for any small thread of control that he could muster these days. Maybe, just maybe Victor takes pleasure in all of this too, for he feels less alone when he’s not the only one scrambling for answers and solutions when the other person is absent. 

Victor pulls out the bar stool with his foot. The light catches the sheen of his polished brogue, and it becomes an offering to his newfound companion. “Would you like a drink? You look like the kind of man who would enjoy scotch.” Victor chooses his words carefully, because he knows just by looking at his two toned oxfords and his double breasted Kiton that he’s the kind of boy that very much so considers himself a man. 

Otabek takes him up on his offer and sits beside him. He supposes he’s still holding out hope that Yuri will be let out of his hotel room. Maybe he sees the interaction as a necessary transaction. He assumes that he and Yuri are close, or he assumes that Victor cares who he sees and who he associates with. It isn’t that he does not. He’s not so callous towards his fellow rinkmate. Simply, these are the kinds of things that Yakov is good at actively remembering to worry about. “Excuse me,” Victor catches the bartender’s attention, but he smiles at Otabek. “May we have a Macallans? Ah, neat. And yes, another martini if you don’t mind.” 

Their drinks come. Otabek picks his own tumbler of alcohol. He sips at it gingerly, but cannot hide the recoil. His lips purse, his eyes flutter shut if not but for a moment. Victor of course sees it all even though it happens in seconds. He notices these kinds of things in other people, for better or for worse. “It seems like we’re both missing a Yuri tonight,” he admits with a smile. He’ll be open to him, simply because he’s too hyper focused to care about anything that he has to say.

Otabek squints at him in consideration for a moment before blinking his eyes in realization. “Katsuki.” 

“Yes,” he admits tracing the rim of his martini glass with the tip of his finger.

“Why do you wish to see your Yuri? Are you friends?” 

“Not,” he falters slightly opting to take a drink from his glass, surrendering to the bitter flavor if for only but a few seconds of reprieve. “Not exactly.” 

“I see,” Victor nods. “It can be difficult to make friends in skating. Your best friends are your closest competitors. Even in the rink, the girls, the couples in pairs and in ice dance, everyone seems so focused. There’s little time for-“

“Please don’t tell him that I spoke of him.” Otabek nervously wipes his palms on his slacks. 

If he were a mean spirited man, he’d tell him that there would be no need to speak of him at all. There was no risk of sullying Yuri’s future opinion of him when they inevitably met. Victor himself cannot decide if he’s grating or endearing. Perhaps he only continues to entertain the conversation for lack of anything better to do. However, he can say with some certainty that Yuri would not have the patience for his long pauses and pensive stares. “Not a word, so long as you keep my secret too,” although he isn’t so sure that it’s much of a secret. He hasn’t seen a photo online, but everybody talks. “Have you ever been to Montreal before?” 

Much to his surprise, Otabek nods. “Trained here for a few seasons.” He takes another drink of the scotch, and perhaps Otabek isn’t imagining it when he wince less and less with each sip. “Toronto.”  Another sip, and it’s like it doesn’t even taste bad to him anymore. “Came here once to look at colleges.” 

Victor nods. He didn’t even bother applying. What isn’t the rink has never been  important. Now, he feels the soft sting of jealousy that this boy of eighteen already has more dimensionality to his life than he does himself. “Would you like another?” Victor asks when Otabek drains his tumbler. 

Otabek licks his lips and turns to Victor. His face is flushed red. “Yes please.”

“Would you like something different?’ 

“Another is fine.” 

* * *

If anything, Victor knows how to carry a cordial conversation. Knows how to make those near him comfortable even if he himself feels like crawling out of his skin. He speaks of Yuri, his program, and his abilities. Victor feeds him little harmless stories about the rink that can’t help but make a smile naturally spread across his face. 

Victor decides that he is endearing. 

He listens genuinely and intently. There is enough alcohol between them now that Victor is certain that Otabek would listen, even if he changed the subject to something outside of his rink mates. 

More drinks come, and then the sound of the four piece orchestra fades. Girls with their strappy heels in their hands wander out under the tutelage of their embarrassed and exasperated coaches. The men seem desperate to wander out into the streets for more drinks at adjacent clubs. On any other night, Victor would be among them with his arm draped over Chris’ shoulder. 

Tonight it isn’t so. 

He cannot even remember seeing him and Samuel much after the toast and the first dance. However, he supposes that this is the nature of these things. Of course, he never imagined his best friend, and world renowned scoundrel, happily married and wrapped around the finger of one man and only one man. 

“What are you doing?” Otabek holds his gaze firmly until he realizes that he’d only spoken half of what he’d intended to say. “After this,” he supplies. Of course Otabek means to ask what he’s doing now.  “Going to a club.” The look he gives Victor now is less tense. His eyes are smooth like fine espresso. “Liar Liar. Uptown.” Maybe that kind of thing would work with someone Yuri’s age.  A twenty slipped to the bouncer and a candy flavored cocktail. 

“Is there anything I could do dissuade you?” Victor leans in to Otabek and touches him for the first time that evening. His hands brush across his lapels, and linger on his gunmetal colored tie.  “I’m going to my room.” 

* * *

It’s not his Yuuri. There’s no way that Otabek will allow him to forget that. From his broad shoulders to his stoic demeanor. He’s no Chris either. There’s no way that Otabek will allow him to forget that. He gained a great deal of confidence quaffing $50 a glass scotch, but that kind of confidence only takes him so far. It doesn’t disguise his shaky hands, and his hesitant touches. It doesn’t hide the fact that he’s going to have to orchestrate every second of the encounter and pray that it’s worth the time, the effort, and the money. 

It’s been a long, long time since he himself has had to settle for bronze. The shade doesn’t suit him one bit, but that’s all he’s got. 

“That’s all you have for me?” Victor says when they part from a less than stellar kiss. “I know you have more.” He nuzzles Otabek’s neck, and brings another kiss out of him. This time, it doesn’t quite so strongly smack of virgin. Otabek traces the line of his lips with his tongue. Victor breathes into it. That’s right. Stroke his ego. Make him feel good and make him be bolder. 

Otabek threads his fingers through his hair and tugs. “Ah-Beka-yes please.” His voice is thick like syrup and barely sounds like his own, but he won’t notice. Otabek has already readjusted his laser focus and hyper fixation. Go through all the motions he’s only dreamed about in vivid detail while he jerks himself in the frantic and abusive way that only teenage boys can muster. 

Their jackets are shed by the door. Their ties are loosened in the few, but frantic steps from the door to the bed in discordant motions that tug them tighter and nearly choke them. 

They undo their own dress slacks, and step out of them simultaneously. For a moment, they stand and stare at one another half naked and uncertain. Yes, Victor too is uncertain. He’s not like Chris. He doesn’t revel in teaching and instructing. He doesn’t count the number of first time given to him. In fact, he’d prefer not to think of it. 

“Otabek,” Victor closes most of the distance between them and rests his wrist on Otabek’s shoulder. His grin is wide and genuine. In the muted light of the hotel room, he takes in what he can of Otabek’s body. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times he sees an athlete's toned form, it never gets old. Perhaps because the themes always vary. Yuuri is soft around his hips and his ass. Chris has the stature of one of David’s statues. Otabek’s form is something out of an obscene erotic fantasy. He’s compact muscle wrapped under dark silken skin and a smoky demeanor that is designed to make boys’ knees quake. “Are you a top or a bottom?” The question is a trap yet,- 

“Top.” He kisses with hesitance, he answers this question with certainty. Then, he works his knee between Victor’s legs and walks them the few steps back to the bed. He pushes Victor down, and surely he’s proud of himself right now for executing a move that is as old as sex itself.  

“Fine by me,” Victor responds. He tangles his fingers into the longer part of Otabek’s hair. While Otabek becomes wholly engrossed in giving him sloppy, open mouthed kisses Victor flips their positions. “Can I trust you with a blow job first?” Otabek’s cock is thick, cut, and makes him drool. It’d be a pity not to.

Otabek nods, and so Victor crawls down his body at a syrup slow slide. He makes sure do everything in his power to get Otabek worked up. Kisses down his neck, and sucking on his nipples, and tracing the lines of his muscles all before reaching his cock. 

“Are you doing it or not?” 

“Cheeky,” Victor chuckles dryly. He lets the tip rest in his mouth for a moment before lapping at it gently. He sinks down slightly, but much to Otabek’s frustration, doesn’t go down nearly half as far as he could. These things are delicate matters after all. Otabek smells of musk and Molton Brown soap, the kind that all boys buy when they decide they’re going to become men. Victor swirls his tongue back up to the tip, and cocks his own head just right so he can see Otabek writhe against the sheets. Victor smiles against his cock, and goes through the motion all over again, careful to keep a vice tight grip at the base of Otabek’s cock. 

Although Otabek says nothing, barely even moans, his reactions are anything but underwhelming. He bites his lips until they’re plum colored. Then, he moves onto biting the soft webbing between his thumb and forefinger when his lips become too sore.  He arches his back, greedy for more. He props himself up on his elbows, and Victor watches in rapt fascination as his eyes flutter open and closed, open and closed in raw ecstasy. When Otabek finally does make  a sound, it surprises him. “Wanna do something for you.” 

“Really?” Victor cannot hide the eagerness from his voice. It’s rare that someone is so inexperienced, yet so willing to put himself out there. Victor supposes it's not much different from the way that he extends himself on the ice. “You can get me ready.” 

“I can.” His response is firm and unwavering. This, at the very least he knows how to do. As Otabek covers his fingers in lube, Victor wonders if he knows with such certainty that he prefers to be on top because of long nights spent curled up in strange contorted positions with nothing particularly pleasurable or noteworthy to show for it. Certainly he had such times in his younger years, when he thought he didn’t need toys, and he didn’t have a partner. 

Otabek circles his rim and slips a digit inside. “That was easy.” 

“That’s incredibly rude.” 

Of course, the offputting component of his demeanor slithers back into place. “Observational.” He works another finger inside, but doesn’t do anything else with them. 

“I’m prepared,” Victor responds. He’ll learn in time how it’s always best to take care of things  _ before _ the gala so as to not be led astray too easily  _ during _ . Both he and Chris have made some regrettable mistakes, and now he won’t leave the room without a quiet moment with his favorite toy. “Do something with your fingers.” 

Otabek’s technique leaves much to be desired. He crooks his fingers, and as soon as he rubs against the spot he changes to a scissoring motion. Then, he becomes preoccupied with the idea of inserting another finger. “Just keep doing that,” Victor orders finally. “Nothing else,” and he cannot hide the exasperation in his tone. 

Victor closes his eyes and focuses on the rough fumbling feeling of the fingers inside of him and the cool crisp sheets below him. There’s no noise shared between them, just ragged breathing. The tension, no concentration between them is thick. Whatever desire that builds between them is precarious. 

He can feel the blunt pressure of Otabek’s cock pressed up against his thigh. “Can I?” 

Victor’s eyes open slowly. Otabek looks at him so earnestly, so sincerely. It’s impossible for him to say no. 

Otabek flips him onto his stomach and then replaces his fingers with his cock. For all of his effort, Victor is glad that he worked himself open hours earlier in the shower. Gratitude washes over him that Otabek is only clumsy, and not greedy. His cock feels thicker now than it did in his hand or in his mouth, and it takes his breath away. 

Otabek doesn’t pause, he doesn’t ask if he’s alright. He doesn’t stop to let his brain catch up to his body, despite the fact that Victor knows he must be reeling. That is simply the nature of these things. Instead, he ruts into him in slow, almost futile circles, humping him like he’s a pillow and not buried deep inside. “Otabek,” Victor corrects and shifts to his knees. 

The change in position forces Otabek to actually move. He fucks into him hard and fast, and in that moment Victor realizes that it is just what he needs. He needs the clumsiness. He needs the sloppiness. He needs the disjointed movement, and the infuriating build. Something that threatens to be amazing mounts and mounts like pressure in a kettle, and then dissipates as soon as Otabek changes interest. He’s broader, and he’s quieter, but he does it  _ just _ the way he imagined Yuuri doing it. Sloppy, overeager, and although he’s not so up front about it, his desire to please is tangible. 

Victor slips his hand around his cock, and works himself furiously. He’s desperate. So desperate to get off when Otabek does, because he knows that such a brutal pace isn’t sustainable. Victor knows that he’s lucky his partner has lasted this long.  

“Victor,” it’s possibly the first time he’s spoken his name. “Victor,” his name is a warning on his tongue. Up until this very second, he’s tried his hardest to cum as quickly as possible. Now, he’s confronted with the opposite, and his body won’t cooperate. 

Victor can feel him twitch inside, and he can feel the powerful spurts of cum fill him up. Of course, he doesn’t even go soft, doesn’t feel over stimulated. So he keeps trying to rut inside of Victor. He wraps his own hand around Victor’s cock, but Victor doesn’t relent his own frantic touches. He’s so close to the edge and he knows what feels good.

Otabek bites down on his neck. Victor tugs at his own cock. Finally, he’s spilling onto the sheets with his own stifled cry. 

Afterward, Victor cannot wait for him to leave. He gathers his discarded clothes, puts them on, and takes a bottle of water from the minibar without asking. After he’s gone, Victor would have anything to have him back, if not but for a moment. The scent of sex in a hotel room is always so much less shameful if there are two. 

It’s been a long, long time since he himself has had to settle for bronze.


End file.
